


ink on my skin, spells out your name

by whataboutmycape



Series: time is finite my dear, love is not [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Implied Character Death, M/M, Soulmates AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 13:51:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4351280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whataboutmycape/pseuds/whataboutmycape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tucker is older now, has been through hell and back, and he’s just lost his soulmate. He feels hollow, and his heart feels broken, and his ribs are sore. His words are a reminder that he is and will always be half of a man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ink on my skin, spells out your name

**Author's Note:**

> so this has been sitting in my drafts for a long time... largely inspired by other fics throughout the tuckington tag, as well as that one tumblr post that said "what if there was a soulmate au where the last words your soulmate said to you were inked on your body"

Wash has always preferred to stay in his armor. His standard issue gray- pipelined with yellow to make him visible on the battlefield, easily recognizable to his peers- has consistently been his protection from both his enemies and himself. Absently, at night, he runs his hand over his chest, smooths his palm over the bold lettering.  _ **NO**_. Wash lays awake at night and wonders.

When he was younger, his mother used to look at him like she pitied him. She would hold her hand over the letters and her eyes would get misty, and he would give her a bright smile because he didn't understand. As he grew up, and became more conscious of himself and his letters, Wash made it a point to never be caught without a shirt on. During Project Freelancer, he was never out of his armor. York and North used to laugh at him and make jokes, but he took it all in stride. When he laid awake at night, there was no where there to see him clutch at his chest.

After Epsilon, Wash didn’t sleep. He didn’t lay awake at night, didn’t even lay in bed. He walked laps, first around the infirmary, and then later the whole Freelancer building. Sometimes he would find York, asleep at a table in front of the combat room. Usually Carolina would be inside, reeking havoc on the dummies. Wash would continue to walk and pretend he didn’t see them. Other times it would be North and South, their voices loud and angry, and then he would turn around and pick up his pace. They both ask too many questions for him to comfortable with, and any sibling dispute they might be having was not something he wanted to be involved in.

The worst was when Connie would find him. He never found her, never ran into her walking around in the quiet. She always snuck up on him, from around the last corner or behind the door he just passed. She didn't ask questions, but Wash got the feeling that she just _knew_.

Things went to shit pretty quickly. They went to shit, and then they went to even more shit, and before he could wrap his mind around what he was doing, Wash found himself shipped to a box canyon in the middle of nowhere where nearly no one was left. He was sent everywhere, going on a search and rescue mission he really had no part in, went through so much shit he grits his teeth every time he even thinks about it.

He found Maine.

Well, not really. He found the Meta. In that desert, Wash found a new outlook, carved a jagged red line through his letters, ** _NO_** , and he sharpened every last soft edge he had left on his body. He got shit done.

And then it fell apart again.

That brings him to the next box canyon, left alone with straggling SIM soldiers who don’t even know real battle, can’t possibly know bloodshed the way he does, some _rejects_. It’s funny, really. Wash doesn’t have time anymore to lay awake and curl his fingers over the letters, trace the jagged, puffy scar. He just works, day and night, and hopes for the best.

 

Tucker has always been confused. Throughout childhood, past enlistment, into training camp--his words have always confused him. With _Freckles, shake_ curling around his bicep, Tucker has always wondered.

When he was younger, his mother used to swaddle him in blankets and sing to him. She taught him French alongside English, and even though he grew up with two languages, he still couldn’t understand the words on his skin. His mother told him not to worry about it yet, that he had years ahead of him before he even had to think about it.

Tucker was 16 when he forged the enlistment form and joined the force, two years to early and entirely unwilling to wait. His mother was long gone, his father shortly after her, and Tucker was left alone with his words and his imagination. He quickly became restless and bored. He couldn’t sit still without feeling jittery, and he had nothing to occupy his time with.

The army proved to be the best distraction. Here, Tucker could wear his armor everywhere and no one would suspect a thing. The officers here didn’t care what his words said, they didn’t care if he knew who his soulmate was, didn’t care about anything, as long as he was doing his job. Tucker’s hands were steadied by the gun between them, his restlessness hushed now as he carefully and quietly learned how to take apart all of his weapons and clean them. He methodically put everything back together and strapped them back onto his armor and ran through his drills, again and again, never having to think about _Freckles, shake_. No one here cared.

In the first box canyon, Tucker felt lonelier than ever before and endlessly frustrated. Here, there were no distractions. There were no officers calling out drill, no mock-war for him to play through. He was supposed to be deployed in battle, but instead, he was bored out of his mind again. With nothing to do, nothing grounding him, he would slink around camp and try to avoid the questioning looks he would get from Church. Caboose, when he showed up, sparked the best distraction that Tucker could’ve ever asked for.

Still, that feeling of frustration and loneliness dogged him. It carried with him when he left that hell of a box canyon, followed him to the temple, dug itself underneath his ribs and came with him, first to the past, and then to the endless snow. It was still lodged there when they turned to fly back home, was still wedged there when they crashed in the second canyon. When Caboose discovered his new friend, a hulking metal machine made for nothing but death and destruction, Tucker felt both relieved and horribly, horribly uneasy.

 

Tucker makes it a point to never be alone with Freckles. He gives the machine as wide of a berth as he can and ignores the angry looks that he gets from Wash when he just flakes out entirely and camps out at the Red’s Base with Grif. Caboose hasn’t noticed yet- he’s still too caught up trying to train the damn thing- but Tucker knows something is going to break soon.

Wash corners him about it when he’s getting ready for bed one night. Tucker is finally out of his armor and ready to knock the fuck out when Wash knocks on his door and then barges in a second later. He freezes in the doorway, though, staring at Tucker like a deer in headlights all of a sudden. The sight makes Tucker laugh.

“You knocked?” He teases, raising an eyebrow towards Wash, who just shakes his head.

“I... thought you would still be up and dressed. I didn’t mean to- well.” Wash cuts himself off, his cheeks- the only skin visible, the rest of his body still covered in armor- turning pink.

“Not all of us live and breath and sleep in that hunk of metal, dude. I don’t know about you, but my skin needs to breath sometimes,” Tucker snorts and pulls a shirt over his head and turning to face Wash. “Did you need something, though?”

Wash sighs then, and Tucker frowns as he moves to sit down on his cot. His feet hang off of the sides, and he lets them swing there while he waits for Wash to gather his thoughts. 

“You’ve been acting weird ever since we landed here,” Wash finally says, shifting his weight between his feet. When Tucker looks up at him, Wash is looking down at the floor. 

Tucker bites his lip before answering. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Tucker-” Wash starts, but then stops, and Tucker hears him suck in a breath. He looks up to find Wash staring back at him with soft, sad eyes. Tucker fidgets under the gaze, and absently moves to rub a hand over his words, a nervous tick of his, and Wash tracks the movement with his eyes. 

That’s when Tucker freezes. His hand clamps over his bicep, covering his words, _Freckles, shake_ , and he cuts his gaze up to Wash. 

Wash, who still looks sad, but now also looks guilty. “Tucker...” He starts again, this time his voice barely above a whisper, and Tucker feels hysterically near tears. 

“Can we please just pretend this never happens?” Tucker chokes out, his hand wrapped so hard around his arm he’s leaving indents in the shapes of his fingernails. Wash looks like he wants to protest, but he glances between Tucker and his hands and nods. 

Wash turns and leaves without saying a word. Tucker doesn’t get any sleep that night. 

 

They meet an orange asshole named Felix. The guy is all arrogance and annoyance, and Tucker can’t stand him already. 

He’s a good soldier, though, and suddenly they need him. Suddenly, the canyon isn’t so quiet anymore. The next thing they all know, they're getting sucked into fighting a war they really have no part in. 

Tucker doesn’t have time to think about his words, now. The only thing he has time for now is to fire and duck, reload, repeat. The enemy soldiers are coming from everywhere. It seems like he shoots one down only for three more to take their place, and it’s just so _frustrating_. 

Sarge goes down first, then Wash. Tucker’s ears are ringing. He’s distantly aware of Felix yelling for him, yelling that they need to go. There was supposed to be backup here an hour ago, where is everyone? 

Felix grabs his arm and even through his armor, Tucker can feel the burn of it. His skin crawls and he digs his heels in, whipping his head around and scanning the camp. 

“No, where’s Wash? We can’t leave without Wash!” Tucker’s heart is hammering as he panics, and his stomach is tightening into one huge knot. he has a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach that everything is _wrong, wrong, wrong_. 

“Tucker, we have to go! _Now_!” Felix is yelling at him, grabbing for him again and dragging him forward through the tunnel, but Tucker pulls against him, because- because- 

“Wash!” There, in the middle of everything, Wash is standing up. He looks confused, and shaken, and Tucker feels like he can’t breathe as he yells. “ _Wash!_ ” 

Wash doesn’t look over at him, though. He’s looking at the enemy, he’s calculating the chances. His mind runs the numbers and Tucker can almost see him make his decision. His heart is pounding like a jackhammer. 

“ _Freckles, shake_ ,” Wash yells, his voice hoarse and loud, and Tucker can feel his heart thudding up his throat. He thinks he’s going to choke on it when he screams.

 ** _“NO!”_**  

Tucker is pulled backwards, stumbling across the rocks as someone pulls him through the tunnel, away from the collapsing opening. As the rocks crumble in and Tucker loses sight of the canyon, loses sight of the base, loses sight of _Wash_ , he can feel a burn crawling up his arm and straight to his heart. 

The weight of the ink, of _Freckles, shake_ , feels too heavy. His armor feels too heavy, and Tucker can’t move. He can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t- can’t- 

Grif is there, suddenly, pulling Tucker’s helmet off of his head and leaving Tucker gasping, his eyes red rimmed and raw, face a mess of tears and snot and sweat. He doesn’t know, there’s no way he could know, but he’s hugging Tucker anyway. Tucker is so unbelievably grateful that he clutches back, clutches the other soldier like a life line as his heart hammers and his chest constricts and he sucks in hitched breaths, tears leaking from his eyes. 

Tucker is older now, has been through hell and back, and he’s just lost his soulmate. He feels hollow, and his heart feels broken, and his ribs are sore. His words are a reminder that he is and will always be half of a man. When they travel to the rebel camps, Tucker sits down and takes out his knife. He carves a sharp, straight line across his bicep, dissecting his words in half, and wraps the wound with a gray and yellow strip of canvas. 

**Author's Note:**

> i've realized afterwards that this was very tucker centric??? i meant to make it seem mostly even between them but that went out the window after the beginning ohp  
> anyway, i hope you enjoyed! sorry for the sadness :(


End file.
